Mysteries - of One Sort or the Other
by ravenclawscar
Summary: A series of crimes break out across Midsomer. It should just be another day for Barnaby and Jones, but there always seems to be something plaguing the sergeant's mind and Barnaby's psychology degree instincts soon begin to kick in.
1. Chapter 1

DCI John Barnaby was not a man who could be easily persuaded to write off his own psychology degree, although he would never admit that Jones' teasing did not bother him. He was never quite sure why he had endured the long four years at university, writing paper after paper, only to end up working for the police for much of his later life. One thing a psychology degree was good for, however, was reading the subtle emotions that visited Barnaby's sergeant's face fleetingly. Because, it had to be said, DS Ben Jones was a closed book.

It started on an early morning call out. Barnaby had been dragged from bed before the dawn chorus had woken him by the insistent pulsing tone of his phone. An incoherently tired Jones had managed the address and a name, Marjorie Friar, before hanging up, barely stifling a yawn down the line. Hungry and unable to stop for breakfast, the detective wrestled with his tie, flattened his compliant hair and rushed to the crime scene.

He met the young sergeant beyond the yellow and black tape, stooping to clear the barrier as it fluttered in the breeze and nodded his thanks to the bleary eyed constable that held it in cold, reddening hands. Jones was staring at his phone cryptically but pocketed it as Barnaby cleared his throat and pointed towards the nearby farmhouse.

"Another elderly one, sir," he began, referencing the recent chain of suspicious deaths amongst the oldest residents of Midsomer as they walked side by side, "Ms. Friar lost her husband several years ago and has lived alone ever since. She inherited all of his earnings, from the looks of things, and settled down here in a renovated barn for retirement. She has a daughter, a son, a couple of grandchildren and no other relatives to speak of. Before the autopsy comes in, we're working on the assumption of natural causes; heart condition." Barnaby nodded, albeit a little enviously at the succinct, thorough report Jones had managed to build up of a victim at 5 o'clock in the morning.

"Any reason why we were called then?" he asked with a singularly raised eyebrow, "Early morning, poor health, no signs of suspicious activity-" He held his fingers up as he counted off the reasons he would rather be in bed before Jones stopped him.

"It wouldn't be suspicious, if our victim hadn't been calling the station for a few weeks to report a mysterious figure who seemed to be following her," he explained with a grimace, "She phoned a neighbour, who found her and called it in, but hung up in the early hours of this morning so they knocked to check if she was alright. According to the desk sergeant who's been taking her calls for the last few weeks, description matches that of the person all our murder victims have been seeing recently."

"But no sign of the usual struggle," Barnaby finished thoughtfully, "Well, let's take a look and then release the body. I'm sure we could all do with some breakfast before anything else happens." Jones gestured with one arm through the door, seemingly reluctant to follow the inspector much further. Barnaby raised an eyebrow but did not comment, putting it down to an uneasy, empty stomach.

The body was laid out in the middle of the room, clear of the neatly placed, undisturbed furniture of the living room. The elderly woman's eyes were closed and her arms rested gently on her still chest, as if she were peacefully resting. Something irritated the back of Barnaby's mind but he pushed it away quickly and focused on the unfamiliar pathologist who knelt on the teal carpet. They looked up, blinking through thickly rimmed glasses and nodded in greeting.

"DCI Barnaby, is it?" the man inquired pleasantly, "Dr. Mark Allen. I'm standing in for Kate for a couple of weeks whilst she's on leave." Barnaby hummed in response, glancing back at the deserted doorway and focusing again on the body.

"She's got a relaxed look to her, eh?" the doctor continued with a fleeting smile somewhere between sympathy and relief, "No signs of a fight, no bruises or scratches on her arms. Her fingernails are clean and don't have the usual fibres or blood we'd expect to see from someone who had been struggling against someone."

"So, initial thoughts are natural causes," Barnaby presumed, spurred on by the expectant nodding of the pathologist, "DS Jones mentioned a heart condition." He reached out to take a small bottle of pills from Mark's outstretched hand and read the label briefly, "Dysapyramide."

"It's used to treat congenital heart disease," he explained as he packed his bag and waved through the window to three people holding a stretcher, "I would imagine this is an open and shut case but, given the current track record, I will complete a full autopsy and email you the report."

"Thank you," Barnaby muttered, tracing the titles of books with a finger, finding a small layer of dust covering his fingertips. He looked around the room for a moment longer and then followed the procession out of the front door, not at first seeing DS Jones who had retreated further from the scene. He approached him with a frown coming to rest on his brow, overhearing a rushed, murmured conversation over the phone.

"Not right now," Jones seemed to be saying, "I'll call you back, just hold on." Barnaby stood a few feet away as he hung up and then announced his arrival.

"Taking personal calls at work, Jones?" he asked sarcastically, managing a small smile in the early morning sun, "It really wasn't that bad in there, you know. There wasn't even a drop of blood." Although he had meant to provide some comfort to the occasionally squeamish sergeant, he was surprised to see the involuntary shudder that ran through the body of the man in front of him. Jones shook it off firmly and gestured to his phone awkwardly.

"It wasn't a personal call, sir," he replied, choosing to ignore the inspector's later comments.

"So you have an update for me?" Barnaby returned with narrowed eyes, struggling to buy the officer's lies as he shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot, "No, therefore it was a personal call. If there is a problem with someone, Jones, you're welcome to attend to it. Don't feel the need to sneak around like this." Again, his tactfully chosen words of reassurance were met with the opposite reaction and Jones firmly shook his head.

"Nothing personal," he seemed to murmur to his feet, still avoiding Barnaby's scrutinising gaze due to his sudden fascination with the patterns of dew in the grass.

"It's 5 o'clock in the morning, don't make me play the detective," Barnaby warned gently, "Go home, and stay there if you need to, otherwise meet me back at the station at a more respectable hour. I'll even pick you up, if you need it." Jones shook his head dismissively and walked away, hands pressed into his trouser pockets and shoulders hunched from the wind as it picked up over the trees. Barnaby mimicked his actions and moved to his own car, unable to stop his mind from detecting. He was well and truly awake.

His front door opened with a gentle creak and he slipped through, shutting it quickly to avoid letting a draft in. The smell of an imminent breakfast drew his heavy feet to the kitchen where Sarah stood against the hob, coffee cup in hand. He nodded tiredly in her direction and embraced her briefly before pulling away to retrieve his own steaming mug.

"Another one?" she asked knowingly, the expression he held after returning from every death ever present on his face, "I did think you might bring Ben with you, I never like to pass up an opportunity to get some proper food in him." Barnaby smiled for a moment before slipping into a thoughtful stupor.

"Ben is alright, John?" Sarah pushed insistently, a look of worry firmly planted on her face as she stepped towards him again, cupping his hands in her own, "Has something happened?" Barnaby shook his head to clear the thoughts and fixed a smile more firmly.

"Jones is fine, dear. We're all a bit tired but I sent him home to feed himself. He is an adult, you know," he reminded with a gentle grin as Sarah rolled her eyes with a light laugh.

"You just looked worried for a moment," she clarified, not losing the look of scrutiny, "But that does remind me; Ben will have to come for dinner again soon. He hasn't been free much recently, I noticed." Barnaby avoided the train of thought his mind presented and nodded absentmindedly. His seargeant, he had long since realised, seemed intent on causing himself as much trouble as possible.

"What motive would someone have to follow and murder the elderly?" he posed the question to his wife, changing the subject back to something he was much more capable of talking about. She shrugged for a moment, passing him a plate loaded with eggs and toast.

"Are the victims linked?" she inquired, blowing on a forkful of food before chewing it contemplatively.

"Not as far as we can see," Barnaby replied, "They all had one condition or another that could lead to a natural death but only this last one was without a struggle. The other three bodies were found in searched rooms, clearly involved in a fight beforehand. Anyhow, I should be getting off again." He returned her hapless shrug with one of his own and kissed her swiftly on the cheek, patting Sykes on the way out and returning to his car.

Although it wasn't on his route, Barnaby chose to drive past Jones' house, he argued, to put his mind at rest that the sergeant had indeed returned to eat some breakfast as he had been told. But, like many things concerning Ben Jones that day, he got the opposite of what he expected.

The modest, small house had tightly drawn curtains across the windows and the narrow strip of usually well kept lawn was in need of a mow. Barnaby frowned as he pulled up on the kerb, not used to seeing the quaint house in such a state of disrepair. It was not like Jones to neglect his garden, no matter how small the plot of land was.

He approached the front door although there was no car in sight and went to knock on the chipped paint when an engine stopped in the street behind him. The milkman, Mr Banks, was heading towards the neighbour's drive when he caught his eye and joined him on the front step.

"Morning, Inspector," he had a clipped accent, almost foreign to the natives of Midsomer, "I don't expect Mr Jones will be in, sir. He's not been taking his milk so often. In fact-" He leant down and uncovered the two bottles he had placed next to a single bush by the door, "I could've sworn he'd asked for a delivery yesterday." The man in the peaked cap shook his head and looked hesitantly to the inspector who leant his hand against the door.

"How long has this been going on for?" he broke the silence eventually, "Irregular milk deliveries, Jones being out more often?" The milkman shrugged for a moment before holding up a finger and jogging over to his van. Leaving a final, lingering hand on the door, Barnaby followed him, reading the aged log the man kept of his deliveries.

"There you go, sir, Ben Jones last had daily deliveries three weeks ago," Banks pointed, "Since then I've been lucky to catch him more than twice a week, and his payments have been accumulating, rather than seeing me daily."

"Does he owe you money?" Barnaby asked a little sharply. He couldn't help but realise that Jones had been as distant from his own house as he had from his inspector for the same duration of time.

"No, he's all caught up, it seems," the tall man bent over to read the report and then nodded again, "He left money for young Mindy to collect on the windowsill yesterday. She's my daughter; been taking over the round every so often recently." Barnaby thanked him and returned to his car, unsure of what to think.

Ben Jones, houseproud and organised, was falling behind on the most simple of payments, neglecting his house and barely living there. For the first time in his life, Barnaby hoped that Ben had been sleeping with Mindy and was merely avoiding the older milkman out of embarrassment. But the unsettled pit in his previously full stomach told him otherwise - his sergeant was not quite right and hadn't been for some time.


	2. Chapter 2

Stopping to retrieve another cup of coffee from the main office, Barnaby eventually ended up in the small room he shared with DS Jones, eyeing the aforementioned man as he lay with his forehead against his desk. Overcome with the urge to _do_ something, he placed the mug next to the sleeping man before tapping his shoulder hesitantly.

"Jones," he muttered before raising his voice, "I hope you went home like I asked." The sergeant sat up straight in his chair with a vicious series of blinks and nodded his head, all the whilst flattening his hair between both hands.

"I got in early," he replied with a yawn, "It all caught up with me, I guess. Anyway, sir, I added Marjorie Friar's photo and information to the board and began to look for a connection between her and the previous victims, you know, just in case they are linked." Barnaby nodded, satisfied with the progress and only casting a wayward glance towards their pin board to ensure Jones hadn't been dreaming before he turned back to him with a hint of frustration in his voice.

"I really do think you'd benefit from some time off," he mused to himself, ignoring the look of devastation he received in reply, "Your work ethic recently has been admirable, Jones, but you're a dead man walking." The younger officer sighed to himself and turned back to his work, beginning to work through a small pile of paperwork as Barnaby continued to watch him from his own chair.

"Sarah wanted to invite you for tea," he mentioned offhandedly, noticing the slightly tighter grip on the DS's pen as he turned his head slightly in the direction of the inspector.

"I'm rather busy at the moment," came the reply, and for the first time, Barnaby did not find himself uncharacteristically surprised. It did, however, take a lot not to stand up and shake the man in front of him; ask him what he could possibly be doing that was so much more important than eating, sleeping and looking after both the house and himself.

"I didn't even set a date," he said with a flat sense of amusement, "At least drop me off or follow me home tonight and let her see you. Sarah gets like this about all of my sergeants, Jones, she likes to know what's going on." Again, a white lie although not far from the truth - she would not go spare if she didn't see Ben for a few more days but it would set Barnaby's mind at rest to get another opinion.

"Very well," Ben's response was more stern this time, a warning behind his words that the inspector was tempted to pay attention to, although the secrecy behind every phone call and odd behaviour irritated him; he could not focus on their real crime all the whilst he was being followed by a problem of his own. He stood up to close the door more firmly and sat back down, his actions finally causing the sergeant to turn in his seat to face the older man.

"There's an easy way and a hard way, Jones," he said, using a more gentle tone than he might usually, "I don't think all is well with you and I want to remind you that there are people here who can help you if you ask." Ben looked away for a moment, wringing his hands together in his lap before staring back with another wall in place behind his eyes.

"Like who?" he asked stubbornly, his narrowed pupils challenging the usually reserved inspector silently. Barnaby did not reply for a moment, quickly realising this was a mistake as the hazel eyes in front of him frosted over and hardened painfully.

"You know who," he settled on with a firm emphasis, "And those of us who do care shouldn't need to remind you that we do. Something is bothering you, Jones." Again, a poor choice of words: the sergeant stood up suddenly, a hand combing through his hair furiously before he rounded on the inspector for a second time, his eyes burning in a way that was not familiar to Barnaby. He detached from the situation, trying to remember a time he had seen Jones so angry, and failing.

"It's personal," Ben spat out forcefully, his welsh accent unusually prominent as an unfamiliar pain forced Barnaby to stand up to his height and step forward. The sergeant mirrored his movements with a step backwards of his own, legs coming to meet the desk behind him. Barnaby stared at him for a moment, thinking he could see fear, before burning his psychology degree in his head, merely for the way he was handling such a delicate situation.

"I hope you know you can come to me about personal issues," he replied levelly, reaching out an arm before retracting it himself, unwilling to see another deer in the headlights look from his sergeant who was shaking his head with a tightly pressed grimace blossoming on his tired face.

"I can't," he rebuked forcefully, voice cracking almost unnoticeably on the final syllable. He swallowed firmly and turned away again, "You wouldn't understand, sir, and I don't think our _professional_ relationship should include casual conversations about our own private issues."

"Why not?" Barnaby replied eventually, closing his eyes and hearing only the ragged breathing of his companion, wishing this conversation could have taken place at his house, or else outside somewhere if only to hide it from the prying ears of the station. Jones finally turned around for a final time, retrieving his suit jacket from the back of his chair and stretching his back uncomfortably, a twinge of pain registering on his face.

"Calling me by my first name when we're not at work would be a start," he closed the matter with a final scathing comment and placed a hand on the doorknob, "I arranged a meeting with the pathologist at half past." He did not suggest they shared a car, as they usually did to discuss theories on the case. He did not look back to see if Barnaby followed and, he didn't, standing in a shocked although not entirely surprised silence for some time. And Jones was not waiting outside the station, his trademark look of disagreement paired with a reluctant smile. Barnaby was left to drive in silence, missing the incessant questioning of every theory he had for the first time.

If Mark Allen, the acting pathologist sensed a tension in his office, he was clearly well versed in brushing over fellow colleagues' conflicts as he made no comments. Ben stood to one side in the way he usually did when he was interested in hearing every detail but more focused on keeping any food he had eaten in the last twenty four hours firmly in his stomach. Barnaby still found it perplexing that he had that reaction to such a peaceful death, noting the ashen shade of pale his skin had taken on with a look of dejection sent straight to the tiled floor.

"From the preliminary check-up I would narrow it down to two possible causes," Mark explained, consulting the clipboard in his hands, "Either, Ms. Friar overdosed on ibuprofen, Advil to be exact, or she suffered heart failure. It may be a combination of the two-"He broke off as Jones' phone rang from his pocket. The younger man stared at the screen for a moment and then looked to Barnaby for the first time before nodding his head towards the door and answering the phone.

"You were saying," Barnaby prompted with a troubled look on his face, "The ibuprofen is known to trigger heart failure, is it?"

"Correct," Mark muttered to himself, comparing his notes one last time, "People with congenital heart disease are told to steer clear of such medication though, inspector. I can almost assure you that this was no mistake. Either Marjorie herself knew what she was doing or, someone wanted her dead."

Outside, Barnaby saw Jones talking into his phone anxiously, unable to keep still as he paced some distance from the cars before turning around to return to them and repeating the process. When he eventually hung up, he did not see the inspector for some time, running a hand through his already tousled hair and shaking his head with a heavy weight sinking into his shoulders. He returned to the car at the same time as Barnaby and nodded stiffly, unable to wipe the pain from his face in time.

"Anything important? To the case, I mean," Barnaby asked casually, clarifying his intention clearly as he watched Ben closely, unable to gauge his reaction entirely.

"No, sir," he replied softly, his voice a ghost of its usual self until he coughed firmly, "There was a mistake in something; I just had to correct it." Barnaby dropped the matter, far from happy but unwilling to push him any further.

"We need to get onto the pharmacists in the local area in case someone has been buying ibuprofen in large doses recently," he instructed thoughtfully, "It will be far from conclusive but I can't think of another way to identify our mystery figure with so little evidence."

"You shouldn't take Advil with a heart disease like that," Ben repeated what the pathologist had said after he left carefully, "It aggravates the condition." Barnaby gave him a calculated look and then nodded.

"Doing some background reading, Jones," he inferred, "Good to see you taking initiative." The sergeant nodded stiffly and then returned to his car, phone still held between unsteady fingers. He seemed to wince again as he clambered into the driving seat but inhaled deeply as the look cleared.

"I'll get onto the main chemists in the area," he suggested, as if looking for a distraction, "I'll let you know if I find anything." Barnaby nodded, stopping the car door as he moved to close it.

"Get yourself some lunch whilst your doing your enquiries, Jones, it's getting late and we may have to go and do interviews this afternoon," he reminded before shutting the door and getting into the driver's seat of his own car with a sigh; at least the sergeant still wanted to keep busy.

The afternoon reaped no new information except that working for so long after waking at 5 o'clock was not pleasant. Jones slumped further into his chair as time wore on, the two detectives confined to their desks as the witnesses they wanted to speak to were not available. Barnaby spent the afternoon firmly ignoring the urge to close their office door again and try another heart to heart. He had only managed to come up with a weak plan as the two men stood up exhaustedly and retrieved their coats, heading out into the still howling, icy winter wind.

"I don't suppose I could trouble you for a lift home," he asked, tapping on the window of Ben's car having made a halfhearted attempt to pretend to turn the ignition key in his own vehicle, "The old car's given up." Although reluctant to do so, Jones nodded and opened the door with one hand, rubbing the other against his sleeve in an effort to warm up.

The drive was quiet, unsettlingly so. Jones' eyes remained fixed on the road and focused, perhaps because he was avoiding the inspector, but most likely because both men were so close to sleeping that he did not want to do anything too reckless. He squinted in the darkness, only humming in agreement when Barnaby commented on the state of the weather and his dislike of winter. Suddenly, the sound of a phone ringing permeated through the pocket of Jones' coat, tucked on the backseat. Hands stiffening on the steering wheel ever so slightly, Jones appeared close to pulling over but instead shook his head.

"Won't be important," he commented aloud, the longest sentence he had spoken for the duration of the afternoon. Barnaby begged to differ, as, a few minutes later the ringing began again, only prompting Jones to frown more deeply. The inspector reached back, deaf to Ben's complaints and retrieved the phone, glancing at the caller and not recognising the name. It didn't sound welsh, so he had partially ruled out family before Ben pulled over and took the phone gently but insistently from his hand. It had started to rain so he stayed in the car, uncomfortably listening to the voice on the other end as he stared out of the rain soaked glass distractedly.

"Hi... oh... I can't right now... I see..." he paused for a longer time, before muttering to himself in a similarly strained tone, "Today of all days." Barnaby furrowed his brow softly, trying to hear the incoherent reply on the other end of the phone, only able to detect the fits and bursts the other person spoke in. The voice sounded feminine but he couldn't place it within his circle of shared acquaintances and soon gave up, staring out of the window as drops of water streaked down the glass and listening to the slightly wavering voice of his sergeant.

"I'm sorry," Ben suddenly mumbled under his breath, repeating it a few times, "Tonight, okay? I'll be there when I can... I promise." He hung up and stayed still as if he was still listening to the ownerless voice. Barnaby's voice replayed the final earnest syllables over and over; 'I promise.'

Later, they arrived at Barnaby's house, both men seemingly afraid to mention the phone call had ever happened. John felt as if he was treading on eggshells with his mere presence in the car and had been close to offering to walk in the horizontal rain. Ben wouldn't have let him, he expected, although, with the mess the sergeant was in, he couldn't be certain. The front door opened, lighting the porch with a warm glow from inside, calming Jones considerably as he sat with his hands still pressed firmly against the wheel. Barnaby gestured for a moment at the door and Sarah invitingly.

"From the sounds of things you have somewhere to be," he began kindly, "But you're always welcome to come in." Jones hesitated for a minute before patting the pocket that now held his phone apologetically. In the dark, it was hard to see his eyes although they seemed red at the edges and slightly crinkled.

"I can't," he replied, barely speaking louder than a whisper and, as it had done before at the utterance of the same phrase, his voice cracked softly and he cleared his throat. Barnaby nodded, not willing to push him and climbed out of the car, leaning down for a minute in the rain.

"Take care in this weather, Jones," he said, registering the same look of disappointment that crossed the sergeant's face. He straightened for a moment before ducking his head into the car for the final time.

"Goodnight, Ben."

"Night, sir," he heard the reply and the tender, if not reluctant smile that followed. Ben Jones was not happy but Barnaby could live with a smile, however small.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for the reviews so far (I'm new to this website and I couldn't see a way to respond directly so I was going to do it here):**

~ **Kate will definitely make an appearance further down the line (I did have some plans for her to appear at some point anyway) as there are actually two separate murder investigations in this book - one is set a little later on so she will have returned by then :)**

The door shut out the cold and the rain but did nothing to silence the howling wind as it bellowed down the chimney. Sarah drummed a finger against her glass, eyes never leaving Barnaby as he busied himself in the kitchen. It was only when he realised he had dried the same plate with a wet dishcloth twice that he placed both the flannel and the dish down on the side and turned around.

"I find myself in a difficult position," he began suddenly, surprised to see the raised eyebrows of his wife staring back so intently.

"Ben is hiding something from you and you can't concentrate on the case," she finished for him, moving to gently rub her hands across his stiff shoulders. He relaxed into the action, finding himself nodding in agreement, eyes closed as his chin rested against her forehead.

"I have a psychology degree, for God's sake, and I can't even read my sergeant," the frustration in his tone ebbed away at the memory of the phone call, of the quiet ride home and the conversation in the darkness, "He's in pain, and I don't know what to do." Sarah stepped away, head tilted to one side similarly to what Sykes often did when it felt like he was listening intently to every word.

"Physical pain?" She asked softly, her hands never leaving his arms, "Or something different?" He hummed in agreement to the second question although the subtle back stretches his sergeant had been doing had not escaped his attention. He finally stepped back and picked up a knife that had been left beside the wooden chopping board, slicing a partially cut carrot thoughtfully. He remembered the young man's eyes, flaring violently with anger that faded to pain, the murmured apologies to the faceless voice, his tired, half closing eyes.

"I think-" he stopped cutting suddenly and turned away from the counter to face his wife once more, the truth suddenly crushing against his chest, "I think Jones is grieving."

The next morning, John fastened his tie halfheartedly, shrugging a suit jacket over his unusually rumpled shirt and stared into the mirror blindly. He wondered how he hadn't noticed earlier; every little detail suggested one conclusion - Jones couldn't bare to even look at another dead body. The familiar pit in his stomach had expanded somewhat, allowing him to have a lie in purely because he didn't feel like eating a large breakfast. Every thought led annoyingly back to the sergeant; Barnaby wondered if Jones had eaten breakfast.

He heard a tentative knock on the front door and, moments later, Sarah's feet on the wood accompanied by the pattering claws of Sykes. There was a sound of muted conversation, Sarah sounded insistent, and soon the door closed again. Barnaby stood halfway down the staircase and listened again, absentmindedly holding a finger to his lips as Sykes watched him with perplexity at the base of the stairs.

"Long day yesterday," Sarah was saying politely to Jones who stood uncomfortably in the doorway to the kitchen. He nodded, a hand drifting to the base of his back, unseen by Sarah but watched closely by John who did not move to descend further.

"It's awful, isn't it?" Sarah continued lightly, making Barnaby wonder what buttons she was trying to press, "All of this business with the elderly. People that age should be allowed to feel safe and comfortable, don't you think?" Again, a muted response from the sergeant and a heavy silence returned relentlessly. Jones shuffled from foot to foot, undoing his suit jacket for a moment before automatically threading the button through the material again with one thumb.

"I'm sure John won't be long," Sarah tried again, "That 5 o'clock start must have left both of you tired. I was saying to him earlier, you must come for dinner this weekend. It would make a nice break from all of this, don't you think?" Jones seemed stumped for a moment, scratching the back of his neck tentatively before shrugging very slightly.

"I wouldn't want to interfere," he replied, "And I'm busy this weekend, unfortunately." His tone made it seem as if there was nothing unfortunate about it at all, and he was, in fact, glad to have an excuse. His body language, from the back, told a different story to the inspector as he watched his shoulders tighten at the mention of a break and again at the prospect of the weekend. A funeral, Barnaby contemplated.

He eventually put the younger man out of his misery, allowing his feet to sound heavily on the creaking oak stairs which complained loudly enough to send Ben's head turning in his direction. The sergeant's face flushed slightly in a way that was foreign to Barnaby and he passed him slowly, barely able to keep the usual frown he wore when he was thinking from his face. Jones ducked his head again as Sarah kissed John lightly, leaving only his red tipped ears on view from beneath his sandy coloured hair. Husband and wife shared a glance, Sarah conveying her own concerns and John nodding knowingly before he picked up an apple and placed it into his pocket.

"We should get off," he said, raising his eyebrow at Sarah secretively. She nodded subtly at him and then switched her gaze onto Jones whose head had not resurfaced from its survey of the parquet flooring. Barnaby shook his head with a tired pinch of the skin between his eyebrows and moved to stand next to the sergeant, patting his shoulder in a way that he hoped conveyed the quiet comfort he hoped to pass on.

"Ready, sir?" Ben's eyes shot up from the floor and his face settled again into a neutral expression.

"When you are," Barnaby replied, gesturing towards the front door and turning back to wave to Sarah, "See you later."

"Bye John, bye Ben," Sarah called from the kitchen, palms resting on the island as she came to agree with John's late night revelations; Ben was grieving.

Barnaby wasn't sure if he could think of a worse job to have when facing the loss of a loved one. The morning passed without incident, although Jones was forced to stand through yet another autopsy meeting, gathering together the four victims they had in total. He did not once make himself look into the peaceful faces of the dead surrounding him but seemed to visibly relax when the final white sheet had been replaced over the bodies. The afternoon posed more of a challenge; facing the family members who still wore the same open expressions of grief, not dissimilar from Jones when he thought no one was looking.

Mr Friar had been first; son of their latest victim. He did not offer much in the way of information having spent most of his time on an offshore oil rig for the last two years. He described Marjorie as everyone else had; perfectly pleasant with a hint of the usual forgetfulness and disorganisation of the elderly. She had no enemies, (who would at that age?) and had seemed fine when he had visited on his return from the coast just days before. It hurt, Mr Friar said, to think he could have been there for her more often but would never get the chance. Jones' mask slipped an inch and it took the entire car journey for him to look Barnaby in the eye again.

They moved onto the daughter, Abigail Marsh, happily married to Mr Marsh with two children. She doted on her mother although did not seem to be surprised she had passed away. Whilst she was not without the look of pain held behind her shining irises, she explained in an even tone that the heart disease had always been at the back of her mind. She was adamant, however, that Marjorie would never wish to cause herself harm. 'She didn't _want_ to die; she had made plans for next weekend, attended the village knitting group, had a family she cared for too much to leave them.' It took Jones longer to regain his composure at that.

Barnaby pulled into a lay by on the way back from their final interview and rested his elbows on the steering wheel, thoughts troubling him. It had been the same with every other victim; the family were upset that they had died but couldn't come up with one reason between them to explain the stalker, or the mysterious disturbances.

"There must be a link," he felt like a broken record, repeating himself, "No one kills randomly with such a strong MO." Jones nodded attentively, although his eyes were fixed on the horizon where a scarecrow stood alone in a freshly ploughed field, mud tipped with frost.

"Did they all have plans for the weekend?" he suddenly spoke up with an idea, "Marjorie Friar had plans." The mention of the weekend sent a glum look across his face but he ignored it, blinking hard. Barnaby rested his head back and tried to remember.

The first victim had been Miles Fraser, a man with shocking white hair and a history of chronic back pain. His family had spoken fondly of the man, explaining that he had meant to retire from his gardening every year since he was sixty but, thirty years later he was still tending to the weeds every day. He had been found dead in his bed, seemingly passing away in his sleep, but upon further inspection, the contents of his bedside table had been swept to the floor and a discarded pillowcase lay on the floor. Suspected death by asphyxia and reports of a man watching him from across the street for a few weeks prior.

The second victim was Mr Fraser's friend and nearby neighbour, Fred Barnes. Similarly to Marjorie, he had a condition that could be aggravated by taking the wrong medication and so he was found dead. He collapsed in the kitchen, not far from his pill bottle that stood on the kitchen counter. He lay surrounded by cutlery and a towel; he had been washing up when the killer got to him. He too had mentioned to close relatives that someone always seemed to be watching him.

The third body had been that of Phyllis Conan, retired librarian and avid reader. She had been found in her quaint cottage by a distraught husband who told officers about her hyperkalemia. Only an in depth autopsy found the needle sized pinprick in her neck, the injection site of a high potassium fluid. Without it, it seemed as if she had passed away from a sudden flare up in her condition, causing cardiac arrest. She had been persistent in telling her husband that they were being watched but he admitted he had never seen anyone.

"We can ask, Jones," Barnaby eventually said, "There's a slim chance they might all have had the same prior arrangements of course." The sergeant slowly nodded before sitting up suddenly with another poorly hidden wince.

"The village show," he suggested cautiously, "That takes place this Saturday, sir. There's a list of categories in the newspaper; it's all baking and crafts this time though, the weather won't be right for growing until the summer show." He pointed to the grey clouds again by way of explanation and looked expectantly to the inspector.

"You may be right there," Barnaby thought aloud, "We've seen weaker motives than winning the village show." Ben almost smiled but shook his head again, muttering to himself.

"Your Gran likes to enter the show, doesn't she?" Barnaby continued, scolding his sudden lapse in concentration a second too late. Ben had frozen stiffly in his seat and didn't seem to breathe for a couple of minutes.

"Usually," he exhaled sharply through his nose, the shake audible in the breath that escaped his tightly strung body. Barnaby wished he could reach out for a moment but clamped one hand on the other in his lap and sat still, silently reprimanding himself over and over in the silence that stretched on. Jones didn't need to know he had picked up on anything although the evidence was beginning to stack up; Jones was grieving and it was his Gran who had died.

Barnaby thought of the weight behind the simple reply, 'usually,' the implication that what always happened wouldn't happen this year, or ever again. For a minute the dread crossed his mind that Ben's Gran may have been caught up in an elaborate plot by one of the more batty residents of Midsomer. Could she have, in fact, been murdered? But then he discredited the possibility; Jones would have been there at some point, he would have assessed the situation as he always did. Murder didn't often get past the young sergeant's sharp eyes. That didn't mean to say the thought couldn't have crossed the poor man's mind as well, however, and the mere idea that someone should have to consider such a fate for their family sent a shiver up Barnaby's spine.

Ben Jones was caught up in the mystery of four murders but the only thing he could think of was his the mystery of his own relative. Being a detective was the worst job to have when faced with a death like that, the young sergeant had decided numbly, because everywhere he looked he saw a situation he could have avoided. It wasn't unavoidable like the murders that came out of the blue, only coming to his blissfully ignorant attention when the call came in and it wasn't inevitable like the carefully hidden, premeditated plans he untangled for a living. It was natural causes, and it came too soon; it was out of his control and he had never felt so helpless. Ben Jones felt completely useless for the first time in his life and it terrified him.


	4. Chapter 4

Midsomer's local newspaper was never a boring read. Barnaby tended to steer clear of the usually critical articles, realising quickly upon his arrival to the village that the native journalists did not think of the police kindly. He had also discovered the hyperbolic headlines that littered the front page in large sans serif font, calling for an end to that month's serial killer or else inventing one to satisfy the readers' bloodlust. It took him several minutes to locate the small cornered off section that advertised the winter show, a usually friendly competition mostly entered by the elderly residents. Whilst the summer competition featured the usual straightest carrot and largest marrow categories, the winter fair called on aspiring bakers and artists. The category that piqued Barnaby's interest, with an amused snort, was the Victoria sponge, requiring a strict and specific recipe to be followed, surely taking all of the joy out of baking.

"What are we looking for?" Jones asked, reading over his shoulder in the cramped office. The inspector's ears perked up at his sergeant's first attempts to start a conversation all day and he passed the paper over with a shrug.

"Anything stand out, Jones?" he replied flippantly, "I suppose we're looking for a category that would attract serial killers." Ben stifled a small, guilty chuckle and read the options to himself with a frown.

"Maybe this isn't the right line of inquiry after all," he eventually conceded, folding the paper and dropping it on to the desk with a sigh. The moment of humour was lost, leaving only the frustrated officer and his concerned superior. Barnaby retrieved the paper and tried again, attempting to fit the eclectic victims into one competition together.

"What would a gardener and a retired librarian have in common?" he asked aloud, smiling to himself slightly, "There's no 'writing about plants' sections unfortunately." Ben sat back in his chair with his eyes closed tightly. He seemed to be thinking so Barnaby fell unusually silent, waiting for him to build upon his own theory.

"Cant be anything too specific," he finally deduced with a hesitant look at Barnaby who nodded, "It must be one of those categories anyone can enter. Build your own scarecrow, maybe." Barnaby scanned the list again, rolling his eyes when he came to the monotonously boring event, only requiring people to stuff straw into misshapen clothing. These countryside traditions would forever leave him stumped.

"It's rather fun," Jones had picked up on his snobbery, "I used to enter that one, when I was a kid. I made a straw Postman Pat when I was seven; came second to some family that seemed to win every category they entered." Barnaby raised an eyebrow again at his reminiscing and shook his head to himself more subtly.

"Never got over that one, eh Jones?" he asked with a poorly hidden smirk and a twinkle in his eyes, "But if children enter it, why would the targets be the elderly." Jones fell silent again, his eyes fogging over slightly until he blinked away the mist.

"It was always traditional for the grandparents to do it with the grandchildren, sir," he explained with a wistful smile, "Or it was when I was younger. A lot of things have changed by now, I expect - I doubt many children are interested." Barnaby hummed in muted agreement but quickly spun in his chair and rifled through the contact details of Marjorie Friar's relatives and dialled the number written neatly at the side of Abigail Marsh in Jones' characteristically lopsided font.

"Hello, this is DCI Barnaby," he said, hearing the sound of children running in the background, "Ah, Mrs Marsh, I was hoping you might be able to help me with a particular line of enquiry concerning the show this weekend." He noticed Jones watching him hopefully, and prayed for the sake of his sergeant's narrowing sliver of happiness that she would bring good news.

"Thank you," he finished the call with a satisfied smile, "Yes, I'll let you know." He hung up and looked at Jones with a nod of approval. "We've found our first entrants. She says the children are no longer entering after Ms. Friar's untimely death." Jones still looked sceptical but shrugged nonchalantly as he scratched the base of his chin.

"It doesn't seem logical, sir," he voiced his concerns, "Why would anyone care enough about a stupid scarecrow competition to resort to murder. Surely you would just burn the other entries or something." Barnaby smiled to himself at the mental image he suddenly conjured of a young Jones taking his revenge on the family that had beaten him all those years ago, armed only with a small box of matches.

"Pushy parent syndrome," he suggested and cut off Jones' automatic reply, "And you don't need a psychology degree for that one, Jones. We're looking for anyone who may have been entering the competition or otherwise is related to someone with a scarecrow. That is, assuming the other victims had a connection."

And, it turned out, they did. Both Phylis Conan and Miles Fraser had, now abandoned, partially built scarecrows in sheds or at grandchildren's homes. Fred Barnes had been a long time judge of the competition, breaking the pattern in some ways although the inspector was not too sure.

"He was friends with Mr Fraser," he patiently told a frustrated Ben, "If there was ever a chance of favouritism, it was between those two." The sergeant snorted derisively, seemingly unsettled by such a weak motive.

"There seems to be a flaw in the killer's logic, sir," he had replied with a hollow tone, "Not that these murders can be justified at all, over a couple of figures made of straw." Barnaby found himself returning to the dilemma in front of him, rather than the crime he was trying to solve, for the first time in a few hours. He watched Ben scribble down the details of their hunch with a tight grip on his pen, his handwriting more sporadic than usual. The sergeant was more angry and upset than the inspector was used to, clearly feeling the effects of watching one untimely death after another. Not that Barnaby was any closer to uncovering the details of Ben's recent loss; he had swept the knowledge rather guiltily under a mental carpet, trying to push it to the back of his mind for the time being. Barnaby hated the feeling of uncertainty that came with his building list of assumptions.

They compiled a list of prospective entrants, finding that the pool of competitors had been more than halved by the recent massacre. That did not seem to narrow down their search, however. The person everyone had reported seeing was too young to be one of the three remaining grandparents who had their names down to enter, leaving the far from small circle of close relatives around the age of the children's parents.

"Mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts," Barnaby reeled off in rapid succession, "I'm sure we can rule out the children on accounts of their height, and I would hope, their less developed competitive streak." Jones nodded with another sound between a laugh and a suppressed sigh.

"There are two twins, sir," he spoke up a few minutes later, measuring the height of two young children out with his hands.

"I very much doubt our well built, murderous criminal is in fact one twin standing on the shoulders of the other, Jones," Barnaby replied with some humour, again developing a mental image of the scene, "Although we shouldn't rule anything out, I suppose."

"Shouldn't we think about getting some protection for the last few entrants," Jones' mind returned swiftly to the case, "We might be able to prevent another death." Barnaby frowned for a moment, his heart and mind pulling him in two directions. He wasn't sure he was capable of saying no to that idea in the current circumstances but his brain couldn't help but tell him not to.

"Perhaps that isn't wise," he suggested hesitantly, holding up a hand in expectation of an outburst that never came. Jones stared blankly at him for a moment, his eyes cycling through feelings and settling on one that looked suspiciously like betrayal for some time.

"With all due respect," he began tightly, "We have a duty to protect people, sir." Barnaby nodded, whilst knowing all too well what the priority had to be.

"We also have a duty to bring this person to justice," he said calmly, "And the second we place uniformed protection on the three houses, whoever did it will know that they don't have room for any more mistakes. I fear we may never see them resurface if that happens." The DS shook his head almost pleadingly, gesticulating with his hands for a moment before turning away to face his desk.

"And if someone else dies?" he questioned suddenly before answering his own question with the usual hint of dark humour, "Our pool of suspects narrows again? Maybe we should just let them kill the last two so we only have one family left to interview." His voice had raised slightly and he seemed to notice, lowering it with an unreadable expression. Barnaby was about to let the silence rest for a minute when it was broken again.

"I'm sorry, sir."

The simple statement took him by surprise. DS Jones had never apologised for one of his passionate outbursts in all the time he worked under Barnaby. He was polite and good natured but possessed a certain level of self-certainty that seemed to grant him immunity from the narrow eyed stare Barnaby usually used on the other officers.

"It's a delicate matter, Jones," he found himself saying automatically, "No need to apologise for getting a little riled up." This did not seem to help the look of doubt that clouded Jones' hazel irises and he shook his head in way of apologising silently once more.

"You're right though," he said in defeat, "We can't let the killer know what we've worked out. At the moment there is no tangible link to the scarecrow competition. If they know, they'll abandon the project - scarecrows aren't worth life in prison."

"So what are they worth?" Barnaby mused thoughtfully, "Redemption for a shamed child or a chance to embarrass the overachievers?" Ben shrugged again and Barnaby wondered if his shoulders might stay that way if the young man continued to repeat the same action so frequently.

"Maybe it's about the grandparents," Jones suggested tiredly, rubbing his eyes with a yawn, "They would likely be the murderer's parents after all."

"Let's leave it there for today," Barnaby admitted defeat, too many theories buzzing around his already burdened mind, "We can follow up these new developments tomorrow." Ben paled slightly and pointed to the thin pile of paperwork.

"I might just stay for a bit, sir," he lied smoothly, although Barnaby saw through the mirage easily, "Get this work done whilst I have the time." Barnaby held the sergeant's coat out to him with an argumentative look on his face.

"I know you don't want another body on our hands," he said softly, "But you'll be no use to me tomorrow if you don't sleep tonight." Ben muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'I won't sleep anyway' but snatched the coat away nonetheless.

"The fair is on Saturday," he reminded with a frown, "That's two days from now, sir. If the killer is going to get the last two, they will surely act tonight."

"And if so, we will be up bright and early again," Barnaby replied, hating the situation as much as the sergeant, "But sitting here all night will not prevent a murder; it will leave you more sleep deprived than you already look and you'll only be around to respond to the call when it comes too late. I'll put a word in with any patrol cars that go out tonight; they can keep a look out." Ben glared unhappily towards the inspector but his expression was worn down swiftly with yet another shrug.

"I suppose there's nothing we can do but wait."

Ben Jones continued to feel the weight of helplessness rest tirelessly on his shoulders, spending his night thinking about the strangers in their foreign houses, some streets away and others a little further. He wasn't the only restless sleeper that night for Barnaby also lay awake, his brain determined not to switch off, hating the very idea that there was indeed nothing they could do.


	5. Chapter 5

The overnight silence was deafening. The call awaited upon with bated breath never came, allowing DCI Barnaby to exhale freely as he awoke. He phoned the station over breakfast and compiled a list of suspects, ranging from parents of the children to family friends. With no way to narrow them down, he phoned Jones, wanting an early start.

"I can pick you up in fifteen minutes," Barnaby explained after covering the important details. He wasn't too surprised at the silence that followed. "Jones?"

"I'll meet you at the first house, sir," came the eventual reply, a subtext of desperation that was hard to ignore running through the simple response.

"Don't be late then," the DCI warned jokingly, suppressing the constantly reappearing doubt that rose in his subconscience, now just from the sight of the anxious sergeant. He will have to talk eventually, was the mantra that had calmed the detective the most, he could look after himself.

There had been no luck by lunchtime; every suspect seemed incapable of murder or just downright fed up of the winter show. They had only managed to speak to two of the suspects on their list; a young, not welcoming man but polite nonetheless and a second older man, the uncle of the twins. There wasn't a motive in sight, not even a weak, almost discreditable one. Barnaby and Jones sat in the sergeant's car in the lay by they had began to frequently use, one eating his lunch thoughtfully as the other mainly thought and just picked at his food.

"We need to narrow them down, sir," Jones said tiredly, lowering the sandwich that had seemed to be on a trajectory to his mouth for the last few minutes. Barnaby frowned at the limp slices of bread as if they were partially responsible for the sergeant's lack of appetite but did not say anything. "There isn't enough time to speak to everyone on your list."

"You're right, Jones," Barnaby conceded with a sigh, "But can you think of a better plan?" Jones began his mechanical shrugging motion when his phone rang. Perhaps reminded of the last phone call he took in the car, he placed his untouched lunch on his seat and stood outside on the gravel, pacing up and down for a few minutes.

Barnaby took the moment to contemplate. He couldn't be sure, but the DS seemed to be more in control that day. Reluctantly ignoring the food and the likely chance he hadn't been home that morning, Ben was at least talking, his eyes brighter although far from the usual light they held. And the call he was taking seemed professional - he took it with straightened shoulders and he wore the expression he used on the younger constables when he was trying to look more authorative. John thought, with a melancholy smile, that DS Jones would make a good inspector one day.

"We need to go," Ben said when he sat back down, the sad looking ham and lettuce sandwich wrapped up haphazardly in foil and thrown in a jacket pocket, "One of our potential victims has phoned the station with a report of the same figure watching them."

Not far from Ms. Friar's house, the two men patrolled the tree line impatiently. Jones bounced on the balls of his feet, seconds away from throwing in the towel on their search when Barnaby himself reached his limit. The elderly gentleman they had spoken too had never reported a sighting before but had explained that it was a well known fact amongst the church flower arrangers and bell ringers that there was a 'serial killer' out to get them. He had gestured vaguely to a collection of coniferous trees at the end of his modest plot of land before tightly pulling his curtains closed behind the two men.

"Come on then, Jones," John said with a frown, "This is a job for uniform, if they would show up." Both turned to look at the nearby road, craning their necks to look for the patrol cars that were meant to join them. The country lane remained silent, the small puddles of muddy rainwater undisturbed.

"Is it a good idea to leave, sir?" Jones sounded uncertain and it made more sense to Barnaby why the usually more impatient sergeant had not vocalised his discontent at scouring the same ten metres of woodland over and over. No more psychological blood on his hands.

"It isn't right anyway," Barnaby realised with raised eyebrows, "They may not all have died in the same way, but every victim was watched for a couple of weeks, not just once." Jones nodded, scuffing his boots in a pile of drying leaves as he wandered up and down the same patch of land, eyes not really focused or searching.

"The killer already knew, maybe," he muttered to himself, barely audible to Barnaby's turned back. The inspector turned on his heels and furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?" he asked with narrowed eyes. Jones looked up, surprised, as if he hadn't really realised he had spoken aloud.

"Just that, whoever did it probably wanted to make sure they had a reason to kill the last four," Ben explained thoughtfully, "You said yourself, it could be a pushy parent or a jealous family friend. This isn't a crime in cold blood, it's more than that."

"What you're trying to say is that the murderer cares about killing someone justifiably," Barnaby clarified with a reluctantly proud, reserved smile, "And I think you're right."

"So why have they been here?" Ben asked, "They already know there's a scarecrow here?"

"I thought so originally," Barnaby mused before biting his lip thoughtfully, "Maybe it's a diversion. Meaning, the killer knows we are onto them which they wouldn't unless..."

"Unless we'd already spoken to them about it," Ben finished with a wide eyed stare, "It must be one of them, sir!"

"And surely it is Mr. Fielding," Barnaby replied, "He is related to the older Mr Fielding who reported the sighting. Maybe he was trying to throw us off the scent, make his dad look like a target." Ben was already walking towards the car, a new sense of purpose behind his stride despite the slightly hunched posture that had consumed his figure for the last few days. Barnaby decided glumly to take the small victories.

They were close to giving up when the farm door finally opened an inch and the familiar face from that morning appeared. Francis Fielding did not look surprised, nor did he look guilty, letting them in without trying to run, a facade of innocence still holding up well in front of the two men.

"More questions?" he inquired with a smile that sent a visible shudder of something that looked like anger through Ben's spine. Following him through to the living room, Barnaby placed a warning hand on his sergeant's shoulder, patting his back reassuringly but firmly shaking his head.

"We'd like to put forward a hypothetical situation actually," Barnaby replied with a matching smile, not quite reaching his eyes, "The twins, Mavis and Callum, are entering the scarecrow competition with the help of your dad, aren't they?" Their suspect paled slightly and his palms curled into slight fists before releasing almost immediately.

" _Mavis_ is entering," he corrected with an unconcealed frown, "But yes, my dad has been helping her. We are quite confident this year; she's worked so hard." Ben pushed himself up from his position at the door and took a calm step forward, his head tilted to one side perceptively.

"Has she entered before?"

"Yes," the man admitted with a deepening look of discontent on his face, "Both her and Callum entered separately last year. He got 2nd but she-" He broke off and the smile returned like a wall had been replaced in front of him. His hands continued to fold continuously in and out of a fist but he breathed evenly and regained his composure in minutes. Barnaby felt a little unsettled.

"I'm sure you'd like her to win this year, to make up for what happened," he commented casually, his stare growing more challenging and confident as his mind worked through the clues in front of him, "You sound very invested in the competition, Mr Fielding."

"I - I wouldn't say so," the man replied evenly, "I just want a bit of justice for Mavis, that's all."

"Justice?" Ben was quick to question, his eyes narrowed significantly.

"She was devastated last year," Francis practically snapped before the smile returned unfalteringly, "If her entry hadn't been _ruined_ she would have won easily but instead she had to watch her brother collect his prize. She could have got _first_ place; should have."

"Well, Jones," the Detective turned to his sidekick, "I'd say Mr. Fielding _had_ got quite desperate." Ben nodded grimly but did not reply, his mouth pressed firmly into a narrow line as he folded his arms and glowered at the man for some time.

"So you targeted the grandparents," he eventually accused, a little heavy handed in Barnaby's opinion although it seemed to do the job, "You watched people who you thought might enter until you saw them working on a scarecrow."

"And then?" Fielding asked with a blatant smirk paired with now cold eyes, "What did I do then, sergeant?" Barnaby watched uncomfortably from his seat opposite their suspect as Jones twitched subtly before turning to face him.

"Should we tell him about the mysterious figure his father reported seeing, sir?" he asked with raised eyebrows, watching the subtle expressions spreading across the man's face, "Or should we ask him what he was doing outside his dad's house half an hour ago?" Barnaby smiled to himself a little and gestured freely with his arms.

"I'd say you can take your pick, Jones," he replied, his gaze returning to Mr. Fielding who had stood up, not violently, still watching the sergeant.

"They were all half dead anyway," he snarled with the same unsettling grin on his face, "It didn't take much to put them out of their misery. Friar had a heart disease that would have killed her in the end. The rest of them could have turned up dead on their own accord any day." He seemed almost proud of himself, as if he were providing a service to the elderly residents of Midsomer. Barnaby did not dare glance at Jones, afraid of what his expression would expose.

"I think that's our confession," he interrupted with another slight smile in Mr. Fielding's direction, "And I don't know why you thought this was a good idea, sir, as the show will surely be cancelled with one of the judges being murdered. Why did you add Mr. Barnes to your hit list?" Francis shrugged in a way not dissimilar to Jones and remained silent, his brain catching up with him and halting the tirade of confessions. Ben moved around the room, picking up photo frames, pausing on one and holding it up.

"Sir?" Barnaby looked at the wooden frame enclosing a photo from the previous winter fair. Three children stood next to their scarecrows, joined at the back by the judges. One face was identifiable immediately as Barnes and when Barnaby raised his eyes to glance back at Mr. Fielding, the man turned a guilty shade of red.

"He wouldn't let the twins enter together," he explained wearily, "And then he _accidentally_ knocked Mavis' over into a puddle. It was ruined, along with her chances of winning. He always chose favourites, and he knew the other grandparents from church." Jones shook his head, rolling his eyes at the ground and shuffled to stand by the door frame again. Barnaby judged from his slumped posture and scrunched up eyes that he wasn't in the mood for talking.

"I think we should continue this conversation in a more formal setting," he said, raising an eyebrow at Mr. Fielding who stood reluctantly from his chair and nodded. There was still a look of detachment on his face although Barnaby could see the guilt of a well intentioned man seeping into his eyes. It was an expression of regret he saw far too often in his line of work - it was just a shame everyone seemed to realise it too late.

The formalities at the station were over quickly. The recorded tape held an entire confession and they even discovered receipts for large quantities of Advil, bought from a store in the next town over. Francis Fielding was not a likeable man (how could he be given the circumstances), but Barnaby found, as he sometimes did, a sense of understanding in the motive. Mavis had been overlooked her entire life by her parents, left to rely on her uncle and granddad for the upbringing she deserved. Less pushy parent syndrome, more child neglect.

The DCI cleared the interview room, packing the scraps of paper and documents into a case file that, until recently, had contained nothing but a set of weak links and guesses. He was satisfied, but wary, noticing how Jones had excused himself quickly after the interview was finished, the same look of disappointment trailing out of the door after him. Barnaby placed the file on the table hesitantly and went looking for his sergeant, the adrenaline from solving a case giving him a new desperation to work on Jones.

He was outside. Stood against the brick wall of the station with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked distant, thoughtful almost, but at the same time blank. Barnaby didn't like this expression; for one thing there was nothing to psychoanalyse, for another he wasn't used to seeing Ben so devoid of anything.

"Jones," he said by way of greeting, "Another arrest under our belts, then." The DS did not seem too thrilled at the thought of Mr. Fielding in a holding cell but nodded nonetheless. They stood in a silence Barnaby felt was necessary; having failed to get through to the sergeant by asking, he decided to wait. He was not stood in the cold breeze for long.

"How could he say that?" Jones burst out suddenly, the anger that had clenched his fists in the home bubbling once more to the surface, "He thinks he can justify killing the elderly because their time's almost up? How could anyone think they have the right to take a day off of someone's life, never mind a month, or a year?"

"He was blind to it, I expect," Barnaby replied quietly, his voice in juxtaposition to Jones', "He had one motive - tunnel vision. We often don't consider our reasoning behind our actions until they are done and someone asks. I doubt he had thought about it until we brought it up; then he had to justify the innocent loss of life to himself. I know it's hard, Jones but some people's minds work in different, darker ways to your own." He was reminded for a moment of a paper he had written for his degree on the subject of guilt but chose not to quote it too liberally.

"No harder than a usual case," Jones returned defiantly, a more frail, worn edge to his tone, "It was just a weaker motive than we normally get, and it didn't seem fair." Barnaby nodded, internally banging his head against the brick wall that was his sergeant and the lack of emotional sharing he was prone to resort to.

"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly, not entirely sure where the question had come from. Jones did not, as he had expected, blow up in his face or storm away but, instead, shrugged his customary shrug and continued to look away.

"There was a phone call," Barnaby dropped the matter slightly, "Marjorie Friar's funeral will take place this Saturday, in case you wanted to attend. And the winter show has been cancelled for a few weeks, just to let all of this blow over." Jones nodded, although he didn't make a habit of joining Barnaby under the usual oak tree at the village graveyard. Whilst the inspector liked to see the case through to the very end, watching the procession of black clothes and umbrellas if it rained, the sergeant was unsettled by the act of watching families mourn. Perhaps it explained his seeming reluctance to mourn a death himself, Barnaby began to wonder before pushing the thought away. Jones also didn't like to be evaluated constantly by his DCI and Barnaby knew he would be rebuking if only his mind had been fully engaged in any of their recent conversations.

The weekend came peacefully. As Barnaby had thought, it was raining and so the procession that followed an ornate wooden coffin from the church was lined with black umbrellas to match. The inspector himself stood nearby, under his usual tree, dressed in a simple suit and tie, umbrella in hand. At one point he caught the eyes of some of the family members he had interviewed in the past week and, as he usually did, he nodded solemnly, standing firmly in place under the aged boughs of the tree. He waited, as he usually did, as the mumbled words of prayer and exchanged farewells reached him on the breeze, listening more to the stirred up leaves at his feet than to the snippets of sentiment that whispered to him. And then, as he usually did, he turned away at the end of the service and left the remaining onlookers in peace.

He had reached the gate that released the living from the ever growing collection of memorials when he turned and tipped his umbrella so he could see more clearly. On the other side of the yard, previously blocked by the church, he noticed a solitary figure stood in the rain, without an umbrella or coat. In any other circumstance it would have amused the inspector that such a fact would immediately allow him to identify the man some distance away from him as the ever underdressed DS Jones but instead the feeling that pulled at him insistently was a form of grief in itself.

Ben Jones, no matter how the inspector looked at him, was his friend. Arguably, after a dog and his wife (who didn't really count in such instances) Jones was his closest friend and only confidant outside of his family. He was never sure how the sergeant felt although he was aware that the two of them shared a similar, nonexistent social life outside of the police station so he imagined he was one of Ben's only friends as well. And that was all the motivation he needed to return to the graveyard path and follow it around the church.

"Jones."

The sergeant did not appear startled as his eyes remained fixed on the freshly laid stone. His hands retained a firm grip on the modest bouquet of flowers he carried and his feet remained still on the small patch of wet grass beneath them. He nodded, perhaps in greeting or else in acknowledgement but did not speak. Barnaby shook his head to himself and joined the sergeant, standing at his side. He reached a cautious hand to encircle his shoulders and stood still.

"I'm sorry, Ben," he murmured softly, feeling the tension ease from the sergeant's shoulder as he used his first name, "I truly am." The silence continued, interrupted only by the quiet chorus of birds and muted sounds of cars driving past on the road. Eventually, Ben shuffled closer to Barnaby, his hand reaching up to close over the one still firmly pressed into his shoulder and he held it there for a moment.

"You knew," he said simply, gaze never leaving the ground as his eyes followed a worm that had broken the surface of the mud. He did not ask, rather stating the fact in a neutral tone and continuing to stare thoughtfully.

"I eventually worked it out," John corrected carefully, "Although I fear I've made a mess of things in the process." Jones shook his head, muttering something incoherent to his shoes.

"How?" Barnaby asked cautiously.

"Congenital heart disease," Ben replied with a humourless laugh, "That's how I knew about the Advil overdosing. It's why I couldn't look at even the most natural looking bodies this week. The phone call I got that evening was from a friend of my Gran's who was staying in the hospital when I couldn't be there. She said things had got worse, that I had to get there quickly or it might be too late. And then she was gone, just like that. And I just thought-" He stopped talking and rubbed his hands together briskly. The rain began to fall more steadily so John lifted his umbrella from its place at his feet and held it over the two of them, feeling the younger man shiver slightly from the water running down his neck.

"I suppose I never considered _it_ happening," he admitted suddenly, "It was always me and her, through everything. And then the one time I needed her most she was lying in a hospital bed and I was sleeping in a plastic chair most nights, just panicking in the day. I wanted her to tell me it was going to be alright, I know it's childish, but I felt so useless."

"It's not childish," Barnaby assured him with a sad smile, "Me and Sarah would have liked to have been there for you though." Ben nodded, as if he had been aware the whole time.

"I wanted to talk about it with someone - with you," he corrected himself sheepishly. "Only I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable, or ruin our working relationship, seeing as it's one of the only relationships I have left now." Barnaby caught himself wincing slightly, only realising as Jones vocalised the truth that he was, in fact, all that was left in Midsomer to keep Ben there.

"You wouldn't have affected anything, Ben," he replied, "Sarah and I would be happy for you to spend more time with us, and Sykes always seems happy to see you which is a good sign." The sergeant laughed slightly, lifting his gaze to look at Barnaby gratefully. The inspector took note of his lightly tearstained face, red tracks joining the running raindrops, and the still tired look in his eyes. But he also saw a flicker of the old Ben reappear and with it, felt a glimmer of hope. Ben Jones would mend, in time.

 **This isn't the end! There's plenty more things that could go wrong so I am going to continue writing :)**

 **I've got a new case and a storyline mapped out that continues directly from this and new chapters will be coming!**


	6. Chapter 6

The small patch of freshly laid ground was kept company for some time. The rain continued to pelt Barnaby and Jones, the weather's howling rage backed up by the icy wind that clawed at their skin and ripped at their clothes. The DCI was reluctant to pull Ben away, watching him in his peripheral vision every so often, not once failing to notice his pale skin, gleaming with water droplets or the shiver that shook his shoulders more than the threatened but suppressed tears. Eventually, his hand that had never left the DS's shoulder patted the younger man more insistently, drawing his attention from the grave.

"There'll be time to come back," Barnaby said earnestly. "But if you stay out here much longer, you're only going to catch a cold." Jones nodded numbly, allowing himself to be led carefully through the churchyard, placing his feet gingerly on the slippery cobblestones. His eyes trailed the floor and, even at Barnaby's car, he did not look back.

The remainder of the weekend passed quickly although John was plagued with an infuriating concern for his sergeant. Despite the long walks with Sarah and Sykes, both members of his small family could see his detachment and sense the distance between them all.

"Just phone him," Sarah eventually vented her frustration, "Pick up the phone and stop being such a - a _man_ about it."

"What are you implying?" John replied with a small, irritating smile that his wife returned reluctantly.

"Never talking about your feelings, either of you," she muttered to herself under her breath, hands kept busy wringing a dish cloth with almost enough threat to send Barnaby for the telephone. However, he stayed put.

"I don't want to smother him," he said adamantly, "If anything, I'm sure he's mortified enough that I saw him at the graveyard. Maybe I shouldn't have approached him after all." Sarah tutted to herself and made a disapproving sound followed by a disparaging sigh. Wrong answer.

"The poor man is grieving," she bit back, "And for all your psychology essays, sometimes all someone needs is a voice on the end of a phone. Occasionally they only want to be listened to, John - you don't have to put much of an effort in to do that."

"I do hope you don't think I'm leaving him alone out of pure laziness," he said quietly all of a sudden. He looked up from his frustrated survey of the wooden floor with troubled eyes. "It's important to know the boundaries when it comes to Ben." Sarah nodded, memories of the day she had spoken with him before work resurfacing.

"You don't want to alienate him entirely," she voiced Barnaby's reasoning for him, "I understand, John. Just promise me you'll be there for him, on behalf of the both of us, when he needs it." John was reminded of Jones' rushed promise to his Gran's friend on the phone that night, involuntarily furrowing his brow at the thought of the vow that had been broken so forcibly.

"I will," he replied eventually, not quite ready to _promise_ something out of some irrational, surprising fear of letting the sergeant down.

In the early hours of Monday morning, a call came through to the police station. An apologetic voice floated down the line, its lilting tone laced with uncertainty and doubt. They reported hearing a disturbance in their neighbour's house that evening, a house that had not shown any signs of life since the day before. It was a quiet day for the police, the tail ends of a well founded case tied neatly in a bow and sent on their way to court. A certain arrest; one more crisis averted.

Barnaby pulled up at a modest cottage, inhaling the lonely countryside air with relief at the sight of their potential crime scene. For once, none of the less qualified officers had gone in first, carrying mud from halfway across the county in the treads of their boots and disturbing the evidence. Before he could exhale the cloud of warm air against the cold, his mood was dampened by another car that had already pulled up nearby to the tape and the back of a head talking to the officers who patrolled the boundary.

"Jones," Barnaby said pointedly, drawing the younger man away from prying ears and lowering his voice, "What happened to using up the several days of leave you've built up over the years; visiting family, you said." The sergeant winced slightly, his nose wrinkling with a look close to guilt. Barnaby shook his head to clear it, reprimanding himself for the overanalysing he had been doing recently. He'd talk when he wanted to, Sarah's voice told him.

"Not entirely true, sir," Jones replied as Barnaby bit back the urge to retort sarcastically, "I'd rather distract myself with work." The inspector did not bother with the lecture he had often given the DS about people dealing with grief. It usually went along the lines of 'suppressing emotions will only cause them to build up and plague you at the wrong moment,' followed by the customary Jones eye roll as he tried to understand the way their grieving witnesses reacted. Barnaby wasn't quite sure if he wanted to see the effect of his speech on Ben now that it was him who needed the advice.

"Wasn't this just a typical report of a disturbance?" he changed the subject reluctantly, "Run of the mill, nosey neighbour?" Jones shook his head, leading the way under the tape and towards the cottage, talking over his shoulder incessantly. No gap in conversation for the lecture, Barnaby noted with a lopsided smile, the young man was learning.

"No response to knocking, sir," he said, "Uniform didn't want to go in and disturb anything, seeing as you always prefer to get the first look so they just cordoned it off preemptively. It might not be anything, but the neighbour - a Mrs. Carling - said the man who lives here is always up before she is. The curtains have been shut since last night, none of the lights have been switched on or off either." They had reached the front door which Barnaby knocked on for a final time before shrugging in Jones' direction. The sergeant produced a key, gesturing to the neighbour's house at Barnaby's questioning glance, and unlocked the rusting door gingerly.

The stonework was old and weathered, peppered with the beginning of moss clumps and lichen infestations. The once neatly piped cement between the bricks was wearing away, leaving chips of stone and cobwebs in its place. Climbing up the front wall, a trail of vibrant, green ivy crawled through the stones, winding around the upstairs windows with reaching fingers. The front door itself was an old country entrance, with both a top window that opened and the main door. As Jones withdrew the key and placed a hand on the wood, a small trail of falling red rust followed his hand, settling onto the iron handle before blowing away in a stiff breeze.

The hallway was neatly tidied, with shoes pushed against the wall beside the door, each pair aligned with laces tucked away into corners. The photo frames on the walls decorated old prints and landscapes from Midsomer, each hung at perfect right angles and without the common thin layer of dust along the top. A mirror stood against the opposite wall, reflecting the garden back at Jones and Barnaby who moved systematically down the corridor towards a door, the only one that was ajar.

The house had a stillness about it that suggested it was completely empty; only the gentle breaths of wind down the chimney sounded besides the two sets of footsteps that moved side by side into the traditional farmhouse kitchen. Ben moved around the expansive room swiftly having noted the lack of a body and only lingered for a moment at the old aga oven. He held his hand up over it and almost moved forward before pausing mid stride.

"Warm?" Barnaby asked sharply, his head suddenly whipping around and surveying the hallway behind them. With his back turned he did not hear Jones move away again with a shake of his head and turned irritatedly. "Jones? Wait, what is that?"

The sergeant held a small recording device that had been left on the table, a tape still fixed into the machine and the play button pressed down. The quiet sound of tape cycling through a reel suddenly became as loud as the roar of the sea on a beach as Barnaby realised it had been there in the background the whole time.

"Someone was here recently then," he deduced thoughtfully, "Those tapes don't last forever." Jones shook his head in agreement, still running his hands over the small object with contemplation.

"What were they listening to?" he asked aloud, almost dropping the tape machine as it crackled into life. The voices were intermingled to begin with, like a frequency between two radio stations where the words interfere and combine. They began to separate and as they did, Ben indeed dropped the tape on the kitchen table and moved back to stand with Barnaby.

"Can you account for you whereabouts-"

"We have reason to believe-"

"Scarecrow... scare... scare-"

The tape clicked off again, this time the play button depressed and the sound of winding came to an end. The kitchen fell totally silent, the tape recorder lying perfectly still as if it were dead and had never broadcast a word.

"Those were our voices, sir," Jones said with a subtle exhalation.

"Perceptive as always, Jones," Barnaby replied with a grim attempt to be sarcastic, "Although how they could have got those recordings..."

"It's the tapes from the interview we did on Friday," Ben remembered with a frown, "I signed them into evidence before I went home. And there was only one copy." The inspector nodded, not quite in the mood to press the matter further, perhaps suggesting that it had slipped the sergeant's mind. But then he remembered Friday afternoon himself.

"I saw you," he replied slowly, "You took it into evidence which means someone must have signed it out. We should start there; round up anyone who had access to the tape over the weekend and get the rest of the recording analysed. It could have been going for at least an hour before we arrived so there may be some more evidence on there." Jones moved to follow the inspector's retreating back when he stopped in the doorway.

"And the missing person report?" he questioned suddenly. Barnaby turned around, taking a final sweeping gaze around the hallway.

"Well, nothing can be done officially for 24 hours. Contact the family if there is someone to contact and see if we can get some information. But for now, If we find the owner of the tape, we find them." He did not add the slightly more morbid, 'dead or alive' although he was sure his expression conveyed the message adequately as Jones nodded, more to himself and continued to follow behind him.

There was a new mystery to solve and it was threatening to hit a little too close to home for Barnaby's liking.


	7. Chapter 7

"Well, as far as I know, there have been no bodies in the last 24 hours, so this must be a social call," Barnaby announced as he leant his head around the door to the pathologists' department. Kate, with unusually yet lightly tanned skin, looked up from her computer and returned the small smile with humorous eyes.

"Yes, I heard it was quiet at the moment," she admitted with a growing grin, "I just wanted to catch up and - bring something to your attention." She gained a more serious expression standing up from the weathered chair and ushering Barnaby into the room, closing the door behind him furtively.

"Not so much of a social call then," John amended with narrowed eyes, "Has something happened?" He couldn't help but reprimand himself internally once more, noticing more than ever the chinks in his armour of formality, pushing him to show such outward concern for people. So many glances in Jones' direction as the younger man hunched over a piece of work at his desk, watching closely as if he might snap and run from the room in an instant.

"I'm not sure," Kate brought his attention back to the room, turning a small dictaphone over in her slim hands before holding it out to him. Barnaby looked it over and then glanced up expectantly. "One of them has gone missing."

"When?" he asked casually although his mind instantly grew a tree of possibilities.

"Dr. Allen emailed me at the weekend, just the usual formalities; telling me where he'd left his part of the report for the scarecrow case," Kate explained, gesturing over to a neatly stacked pile of folders and reports.

"The stand-in pathologist," Barnaby clarified, nodding, "And there was a dictaphone like this one left with them?" Kate nodded before shrugging to herself.

"Apparently," she said, "I've worked with Mark before - he's very reliable and, regardless, the report is all typed up and the documents are all still here. I gave him a day to reply to my emails and he's certain he didn't pick it up accidentally with his own belongings." The inspector paused for a moment for thought, pacing the room between the sterile, wiped down tables.

"So it wasn't a sabotage attempt," he mused under his breath before raising his voice, "And everything else is still here?"

"Where I left it," Kate replied with a nod, "I wouldn't have mentioned it, but there have been some rumours amongst uniform." Barnaby shook his head clear of thoughts and whipped around slightly with a frown.

"What sort of rumours?"

"You and Jones went to the house of a missing person," Kate spoke slowly and questioningly, waiting for Barnaby to confirm the truth, "The younger officers are all in a state about some recording you found there. From the evidence for this case?" Barnaby nodded reluctantly, glancing around the room despite the door being closed.

"We kept it quiet for a reason," he assured, "It was my idea actually. We don't want whoever did it to know what we suspect. It will be much easier to catch someone in the act of stealing another tape or, as it now seems, a dictaphone if they are one step behind us." It was Kate's turn to fix Barnaby with a pointed glance.

"And you think it was an inside job?" she checked briefly, "This could be bad news, John. You know as well as I do that the division is being watched closely at the moment." Barnaby nodded, recalling the meetings between the people of high enough rank to be told more confidential police details with disdain.

"It shouldn't be kept a secret," he knew he was preaching to the converted but continued regardless, "I don't know why they would consider closing down the Causton branch given the reputation of the area but corruption is all we need to be buried. I don't like to think what the lower down offices would do - there aren't enough transfers to go around." Kate looked at him knowingly for a second before turning away and speaking over her shoulder.

"Jones would be alright," she spoke tentatively, "He hasn't risen to Detective Sergeant rank unnoticed, John." Barnaby nodded grimly to himself,f wondering if he, as a psychologist, would currently pass Ben in an evaluation for a transfer.

"I'm worried about all of them," he said aloud, pushing the concern away once more, "But for now, we just need to keep things like this between as few people as possible." Kate nodded in agreement before retrieving the dictaphone at Barnaby had placed on her desk and locking it into the top drawer, holding the key up to Barnaby.

"I'll keep them all locked up," she promised earnestly, "And in the meantime, I'll let you know if any of the interns start acting suspiciously."

"Thank you, Kate," Barnaby said quickly, reaching into his pocket as his phone began to ring. He held his hand up in farewell and left the room, swiping his finger across the phone without glancing at the screen and raising it to his ear.

"Barnaby," he spoke into the phone shortly, hearing a shuffling sound on the other end of the line. He pulled the phone from his ear for a moment and looked at the caller ID, raising his eyebrows in confusion. "Jones?"

"Oh, sorry sir," the line crackled into life, "I was just - anyway, you need to get over to the address I've just texted to you."

"Always so cryptic, Jones," Barnaby replied with a roll of his eyes, "Save the smoke and mirrors to the criminals, what's happening?" Jones seemed to sigh to himself although the static made it hard to tell before replying.

"Another empty house," he answered eventually, "And another tape." Barnaby only then picked up the slight hesitation in the sergeant's tone, recalling the automatic chill that had run up his spine at the sound of their own voices ringing around a stranger's kitchen. And Jones was by himself.

"I'll be there soon," he said more reservedly, "What was it this time?" He reached his car, balancing the phone on the dashboard and checking his messages briefly. It was another unfamiliar address, no doubt one of the more secluded farmhouses as the previous one had been. Now on speaker, the phone broadcast the sounds of Jones' movements more loudly.

"The same report from a neighbour," he explained, "No lights this morning and the curtains were still closed just before they called the police. And I checked the evidence room, by the way, and there was no one else's name on the sign-in sheet except for mine from Friday. It was a quiet weekend."

Barnaby shook his head to himself slightly as he indicated around a corner, watching his phone as if balanced precariously with one eye as he steered down the winding, isolated roads, narrowly avoiding unfamiliar potholes in the tarmac.

"And the second tape?" he prompted more firmly, his intuition eagerly paying attention to the sergeant's more muted response.

"It's a pathology examination I think," he spoke uncertainly although Barnaby was confident he was well aware of what he had listened to, "It sounded like the man who was working here last week anyway and I recognised the name almost definitely of the victim."

"Go on," Barnaby replied, slowly reaching the scene of the crime, two modest houses appearing on the horizon. He noticed the absence of smoke coiling out of the chimney from one and, as he rounded another corner and the fields stretched away across the landscape, the small collection of cars at the gated entrance.

"Mrs. Conan was just finishing when I got here," Ben replied grimly, "And then Marjorie Friar started up. I stopped the tape after that. They were both from the case last week, weren't they?"

"I believe so, Jones," Barnaby said distractedly, his fingers restlessly drumming against the steering wheel as he pulled up behind a slow moving tractor, "Do you have the tape to hand?" Jones hummed in response and the crackling of movement returned as he seemed to cross a room. There was a loud clicking sound of the play button of a tape recorder being pressed down and then the sound of a familiar voice.

"Ms. Marjorie Friar, aged 84. Initial cause of death believed to be a lifelong condition, congenital heart disease." Barnaby winced to himself softly as the pathologist paused for a moment to think. There was a quiet sound in the background of shoe soles on the tiles of the pathology room.

"The stomach contents included Advil, known to aggravate the condition. There are no obvious physical signs of a struggle on the skin although further examination is needed. The combination of an overdose of the ibuprofen tablets and Ms. Friar's usual heart medication caused severe bleeding and some liver damage. Time of death expected to be in the early hours of the morning, before she was found by police." The tape wound on silently as the voice died away. Barnaby had pulled up at the gate to the house, his eyes trailing through the window on the ground floor searchingly as the voice spoke, eventually catching a glimpse of Jones wandering up and down the small room.

The inspector pushed the front door open, nodding to the uniformed officer who stood on guard and absentmindedly contemplating how far down the grapevine the rumours had spread. He could hear the faint sound of the tape continuing to play to itself in one of the back rooms and the faint footsteps of Jones in the adjacent room. Turning to the officer at the door he paused for a moment and thought to himself.

"Has this been called in officially?" he asked, watching as the young woman shook her head, ducking it slightly towards the floor. "Go and report from the car and get some tape on the door. Then, make sure the neighbour stays at home for us to talk to. Me and Jones can handle a search of the house." She nodded and murmured a hesitant 'yes sir' under her breath before hurrying towards the police car that was pulled onto the nearby grass verge. Barnaby shook his head at her retreating figure, almost certain she had heard most of the tape as it played.

He was half considering giving Jones a talking to, trying to emphasise the importance of handling a case like this more delicately, shielding the uniformed officers from the threat of corruption. Because that was almost definitely what they were dealing with; someone kidnapping people or else making use of empty houses and then taunting the police with stolen tapes. Buying officers' trust perhaps.

Pushing open the nearest door in the house, he found Jones in the middle of a tidy, decluttered living room, hands stuffed into his pockets beneath his slightly ill fitting blazer as he looked across the few belongings in the room. He had the same lost demeanour that ran straight through his hunched shoulders, aggravating his shuffling, restless feet as they moved subtly in his shoes. The voice of Dr. Allen persisted through the wall, now detailing a different report before falling silent more finally, the sound of the tape coming to an end dying away.

"Jones," Barnaby cleared his throat, the same mindset coming to the forefront of his head as he had the morning before. Despite what Sarah had suggested, he needed to give the sergeant his space.

"Sir," came the wavering, splintered reply, "I'll just finish up in here. The tape's in there." He waved a hand towards the wall, his head never turning from its perusal of the small collection of books on a nearby shelf. Barnaby thought of the description of bleeding, congenital heart disease still ringing in his ears.

"It wouldn't have been like that," he found himself saying, meanwhile cursing the small section of Sarah that had firmly lodged itself into his head. That's what marriage does to you, after all, he thought ruefully.

"I know," Jones replied a little icily, his shoulders tightening further into knots as he continued to position his back to Barnaby's tentatively approaching figure. He rapidly let out a breath, the tension releasing from his slim figure all at once, leaving him smaller as his voice returned to the cavernous room at a lower volume. "I know."

"It's acceptable to feel this way," Barnaby bit the bullet, opting for the lecture he had avoided so many times, "You need time to process everything and being around death and misery isn't going to help you." Jones shook his head to himself turning around and facing John with a bowed head. His eyes were still hidden by the falling locks of hair but his mouth was set in a firm line. He seemed anxious and prickly, keeping his distance from the inspector almost reluctantly.

"It was the recording, nothing else," he replied firmly, "You don't understand, sir, I need to be here." Barnaby opened his mouth to answer but glanced outside at the officer who stood beside the car, talking into her phone. He nodded towards one of the back rooms and began to walk towards the door, briefly checking that Ben was following behind him.

The tape was in the first room they came to; another farmhouse kitchen. Jones gave it a wide berth, leaning against the kitchen counters and staring out of the small window that framed a view of identical, sparse fields.

"Why won't you take time off?" Barnaby asked carefully, choosing his words more wisely than usual. Jones shrugged at first but the lingering silence told him that it wasn't enough.

"My parents never got on with _her_. They let me visit her in the holidays after we moved away from Midsomer when I was younger. Then, when I first started working here I stayed with Gran whilst I was finalising a house to live in. Mum and Dad were unhappy enough that I was closer to her than them in Wales and even more annoyed when they found out I was _living_ with her. I'm not like my parents, sir, so I always used to confide in my Gran. They knew that, I'm sure, and it's probably what made them dislike her. I was more her son than I was their's."

Barnaby was uncharacteristically taken aback by the sudden flood of information but more acutely aware of the inner workings of Jones' reasoning. He didn't want to go home because Midsomer was home. Ben had lost his family in a single day, cutting him off from the people who were meant to look out for him and care for him at a time like this.

By the window, Jones had regained the pent up frustration in his shoulders, accompanied by a steady but persistent shudder. His hands clenched at the marble work surface without finding purchase and he closed his eyes tightly. Barnaby glanced over his shoulder at the still closed kitchen door and tentatively stepped forward, his arm finding the familiar spot on the sergeant's shoulder. Ben didn't react for a moment but eventually relaxed into the hesitant hand, shifting his body to face the inspector and opening his eyes. The blue returned, slightly watered down and brighter than usual but they were still Ben's eyes, Barnaby reminded himself; he was still the same old sergeant.

"It's a little sad really," Jones said suddenly with a watery laugh, "Even now Gran's gone, I've got more of a family in Midsomer than I do in Wales with my parents." Barnaby thought back to the slightly more fresh faced but mostly identical sergeant he had met on his first day in the new village, watching the young man sheepishly produce a modest bouquet of flowers for Sarah, patting Sykes with reserved affection. And he realised slowly that Ben only ever asked after Sarah and Sykes, happy to talk about Barnaby's family, occasionally throwing in a comment or a hint of gossip from his Gran but never talking about his own family.

The quiet had stretched on a little too long, leaving Jones shuffling his feet awkwardly at his sudden admission that his inspector was like family and he seemed to be itching to flee the room. Barnaby shook his head free of the pleasant memories of his own family and stepped forward again, his hand dropping from Ben's shoulder, only to join his other arm in a hesitant embrace of the sergeant. Ben's shoulders relaxed again slowly and Barnaby felt the sergeant's head come to rest on his shoulder briefly before the younger man pulled away with his typical yet slightly forced sheepish smile, carrying undertones of guilt.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologised quietly, "I'll try to be more professional at the next crime scene." Barnaby smiled to himself softly before shaking his head at the sergeant whose eyes still appeared a little red around the edges. He made a rather sudden decision to inform the sergeant of his theories of corruption.

"Don't apologise, Ben," he emphasised strongly, "This case is rather unusual in the first place. We need to talk somewhere, privately." Jones nodded more seriously and left the room, grabbing the tape recorder, bagging it in an evidence bag and gesturing to it by way of explanation. Barnaby nodded approvingly and scanned the room briefly before following the sergeant out of the front door. The gate had been wrapped in crime scene tape, leaving the female officer to stand to one side, back straight and eyes observant.

"We'll come back after lunch for a more thorough search," Barnaby informed her authoritatively, "Don't let anyone else in before then." She nodded understandingly and watched as Barnaby ducked his head into his car, glancing into the rear view mirror and spotting Jones exhaling slowly in his own car before shaking his head and fixing an even expression.

"What do we do with you, Ben?" he asked himself aloud, finding his mind resurfacing the closed door meetings about the police department. Jones couldn't lose Midsomer, or Causton CID, not after everything else. And that meant their case needed to be closed as soon as possible.


End file.
